


He's Not Here

by Saki101



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: acd_holmesfest, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Reichenbach, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, seance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: Summary:Holmes learns more about how Watson felt after the Reichenbach Fall, and what Watson did about it.Excerpt:It’s a pleasure to write this down now - a record of how I felt in the years after the events at the fall of Reichenbach. I hadn’t written frankly about such things at the time, and some things I hadn’t written about at all. The grief, amongst other feelings, had been too fresh. Emotions are so much more manageable at a remove, I find.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 67
Collections: ACD Holmesfest Gift Exchange





	He's Not Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



> Written for the 2020 ACD_Holmesfest to the prompts of [Small_Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit).
> 
> The story considers the apparent death of Holmes at the fall of Reichenbach and canon typical mention of off-stage death of minor characters.

~o~~0O0~~o~ 

It’s a pleasure to write this down now - a record of how I felt in the years after the events at the fall of Reichenbach. I hadn’t written frankly about such things at the time, and some things I hadn’t written about at all. The grief, amongst other feelings, had been too fresh. Emotions are so much more manageable at a remove, I find.

~~~ 

It was a quiet morning at 221B Baker Street. The sun had finally made an appearance after a parade of rainy days, and pale eastern light flooded our sitting room, making every detail of the printed matter open on my lap very clear.

And for some reason on that day, Paget’s familiar incarnation of Holmes made me seethe. I glared at the illustration featured on the second page of my latest story in _The Strand_. In it, Holmes looked emaciated and weak, and Holmes was certainly never that, not in frame, slim as he was, and certainly not in spirit. I drew in a long breath. It whistled out between my clenched teeth.

“A printing error?” Holmes asked without looking up from his position seated on the floor in front of the settee. 

“No,” I replied and slapped the journal onto the table beside my chair, narrowly missing my tea cup. A few more measured inhalations had apparently been needed. I took a couple of them before I spoke. “The artist’s brother is no doubt a worthy fellow, but I don’t see why he has to represent you to the British public. It doesn’t do you an ounce of justice.”

I took another steadying breath as I watched Holmes clip an article from _The Times_ with the precision of a surgeon.

“I don’t have the patience to sit for him, Watson. It’s fortunate the elder Paget has been willing to do so. And his renderings do align with your descriptions of me.” Holmes selected one of the notebooks arrayed to his right, opened it with a flick of his wrist and reached for the brush from his glue pot. 

I scowled. I’d taken his glue pot away with me after Reichenbach, kept it on the desk in my study, used it sometimes when I edited galleys – a small, physical connection to our former shared life. It gave me a frisson whenever I took it up as though a faint spark of Holmes’s electricity had lingered in its mundane substance. 

He had noticed the little pot the day the old bookseller disappeared in my study and I had fainted. I am not embarrassed at my response. I would not have been ashamed of an even more intense reaction, but I had witnessed things that had helped prepare me, although I had not credited them at first. Fortunately, not long after that improbable afternoon, I had the opportunity to establish myself once again at Baker Street and the glue pot had come back with me. 

Holmes gummed the top of the empty notebook page and pressed his clipping into place with his fingertips. The sunlight played over him as he moved, glinting in his hair, brightening his brow, casting a shadow that hid his eyes.

“You wouldn’t have needed to,” I grumbled. “A few good photographs would have been sufficient...” My voice trailed off. They hadn’t appeared to be sufficient when one of them was placed in the hands of Madame Willow, the renowned medium. The thought had crossed my mind at the time, that perhaps it should have been the glue pot.

My hand drifted to my chest. I pressed against the wool, felt the outline of the silver case that held several photographs instead of cigarettes. At one time or another, they had graced the inner pocket of every coat I owned, even my smoking jacket. They had been as a talisman to me.

Holmes discarded his decimated newspaper and lifted a whole one from the stack to his left. He opened it several pages in, holding it up as he snapped the broadsheets into place.

I gasped.

At that, Holmes did look up, our eyes meeting over the edge of the newspaper. He held my gaze for a moment then turned the paper around. His eyes ran over the headlines from top to bottom and returned to the middle of the page. 

I knew he was scanning the article entitled, “Noted Spiritualist Revealed To Be a Fraud”.

Holmes glanced from the newsprint to me and back. “You consulted a spiritualist,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Not that one,” I protested hastily and despite the fire having burnt low in the grate, the late winter’s morning felt very warm indeed. 

Holmes continued reading the piece. “While I was away,” he added.

“Yes,” I admitted, my hand slipping under my jacket to where my heart was hammering. The case with the photographs rubbed against my knuckles. Despite his more indulgent attitude since his return, I felt sure Holmes would find every bit of what I’d done foolish and not hesitate to say so.

“You are convinced that the medium you consulted was not a fraud.”

“I know she wasn’t,” I murmured.

Holmes set the newspaper aside, folded his hands, resting them in the cradle formed by his crossed-legs, and set his gaze upon me. “Present your evidence then, John.”

It startled me. Even now, we don’t use our forenames in the sitting room very often. Its use then didn’t lessen the increasing warmth of the room nor the thumping of my heart, but it guaranteed that I would reveal all he wanted to know, impending ridicule or no.

“You remember Isa Whitney, from the opium den?” I ventured and drew in a breath.

Holmes smiled. “I surprised you exceedingly that night.”

Smiling in return, I exhaled. “'The Man with the Twisted Lip’ is one of my favourite chronicles of your adventures.”

"And the connection to the matter at hand?”

I turned more in my chair towards Holmes. “He died while you were away.” I shook my head. It had been a sad, but well-nigh inevitable outcome. “Thereafter, his wife, Kate, was taken with the idea of contacting his spirit.”

Holmes’s brows lifted only slightly. “But she didn’t want to go alone and asked Mary to accompany her and you went along to protect both ladies.”

“Well, there you have it. You’ve deduced it all.”

“Not all,” he amended, his eyes fixed on me. “You know how crucial details are.”

I did know that, of course. I smoothed the fabric on the arm of my chair and cleared my throat. “Yes, well. Madame Willow had been highly recommended to Kate Whitney by her sister, and a neighbour, as a very respectable and talented spiritualist, who had known things that only they could know about their departed husbands and so Mrs Whitney wished to visit this Madame Willow to set her mind at ease by communicating with Isa.”

“Going by his behaviour while he was alive, I strain to picture how further correspondence with her husband would be likely to soothe Mrs Whitney.”

I inclined my head in agreement, “But such was her plan and because Mary and I already knew so much of their history, our company was the most amenable to her and thus we went.”

Holmes reached behind him for his tobacco and pipe and began preparing it.

I downed the cold tea remaining in my cup and continued.

“Our journey took us to South Kensington. We alighted in front of a well-kept stucco and brick townhouse a couple blocks from the new St Mary Abbots. Waiting at the top of the steps leading to the front door was a well-dressed older couple, whom I guessed to be bereaved parents.”

“Were you correct?” Holmes asked around the stem of his pipe.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He gestured for me to continue.

“As we approached them, the door was opened and a white-haired servant bowed us into a tastefully-appointed foyer where two ladies of middle years were already waiting. We apparently completed the party, for we were all led through a curtained archway, down a gas-lit hallway to a high-ceilinged parlour of otherwise moderate dimensions. Beyond its bay windows a small garden could be vaguely discerned in the deepening twilight.”

“And the lighting is this room?” Holmes asked.

“Not as brightly lit as the foyer and the hallway, but there were two gas sconces over the fireplace, in which a coal fire was burning steadily, and a gas chandelier above a round table situated in the middle of the room. We were told that Madame Willow would join us momentarily. The servant then closed the curtains and withdrew.”

“Was the cloth upon the table floor-length?”

“I was surprised to see no cloth upon it at all. Amidst the chairs ranged 'round it, the table’s bare legs were on view for all to see. Prettily carved they were, of a dark wood, walnut perhaps. The table top was of the same wood, inlaid with lighter woods and mother-of-pearl forming the shapes of vines and flowers surrounding a central peacock sporting lapis and malachite inlay for feathers. Peacocks were a theme in the room. There was a tall vase of tail feathers in one corner and a tapestry depicting a peacock in a formal garden over a sideboard.”

“Mirrors?”

“Over the mantelpiece.”

“Other doors?”

“Closed pocket doors facing the windows, the door through which we had entered, which faced the fireplace, and a door next to the windows through which our hostess arrived just before her absence became too awkward.”

“And the lady herself?” Holmes prompted.

“Not at all what I had expected.”

“Oh?”

“She was neither imposing of stature nor alluring of face or figure,” I began.

“You expected a leading lady not a character actor,” he commented. “Lady Macbeth, perhaps?”

I sighed. “Perhaps.”

“You were theorising in advance of the facts.”

“The image in the press…” I stopped when Holmes raised an eyebrow.

“As a practitioner of the art yourself, surely you appreciate the pitfalls of relying on that,” he admonished with the hint of a smile.

“I wasn’t quite myself at the time,” I countered.

All playfulness vanished from his expression. 

“And I hadn’t you to curb any indulgent flights of fancy that might seize me from time to time,” I added.

“You wished to believe,” he said.

I raised a forefinger. “I did not. I’d gone to protect Mary’s friend from the follies of grief and indeed had a notion to use your methods to unmask the villainess attempting to exploit them.”

Holmes held his pipe to the side for a moment. “But your mind was changed.”

“Not at first, no.”

“I’ll try not to interrupt your narrative,” Holmes said, “unless absolutely necessary.” He leaned back against the settee and resumed smoking.

I inhaled the scent of his tobacco. He’d taken to smoking other blends while he’d been away, sweeter ones, that spoke of his distant travels and reminded me of his long absence even while he sat in the same room enticing me with his aromatic smoke.

“Fragrant," I blurted out. The memory came back to me with intensity. I could smell it again. “The room was fragrant. Sweet, without being cloying. A delicate scent.”

“Flowers,” he said.

I harrumphed at how briefly he had abstained from interrupting. “There were none in the room, but some may have been recently removed, or there could have been some late blooming shrub in the garden, near the windows. Nothing I recognised in any case. I’d considered the smell of certain types of wood when they are burnt, but the fire was coal. The fragrance was gentle and very soothing.” I shook my head. “I’d forgotten that.”

“Your hostess’s perfume?”

“Maybe…” I was in the room once more, enjoying that light scent and taking Madame Willow’s hand in my turn.

“Her hands were very soft,” I said aloud, “and she knew our names. At least no one contradicted her.” I extended my hand as though to mime our greeting. “She was motherly, grandmotherly even. Perhaps in her fifties. Her hair was light grey and done up with small, silver combs. Nothing ostentatious. Demure, I’d say.” I felt my fingertips at my temple. “But her dress was different. It was a robe, two robes actually, one of heavier cloth, embroidered wool, I think, over a garment of a lighter fabric, silk probably. The outer robe was also light grey, like morning mist, and the other turquoise that showed at the neck and on her forearms when the fuller, outer sleeves fell back if she gestured.”

I turned to look at Holmes. He’d been very quiet. I found him staring at me.

“The wool was the colour of your eyes.”

Holmes nodded gently, but didn’t say a word.

“She walked to the table. Her garments were so long, she appeared to glide over the carpet. She rested a hand on the back of a chair and called Mary’s name. ‘Mrs Watson’, she’d said and Mary had gone and sat. Madame Willow went around the table like that and when we were all seated, she sat in the chair with its back to the closed curtains, with Mary to her right and the older gentleman, whose name I learned was Morrow, to her left. His wife was next to him and then the two younger women, who turned out to be sisters, named Knight, spinsters who had taken care of their elderly parents until their deaths. Then, there was Kate, with me between her and Mary.”

I paused and wished I’d had more tea of whatever temperature. 

“There we were, in the pleasant parlour of an eccentric stranger. Madame Willow explained to us that it was her older sister, Agnes, who acted as her spirit guide, a sister who had died at fifteen when they had both had scarlet fever. She claimed that in her feverish dreams she had felt her sister drifting away from her and that she had reached out and clung to her with all the tenacity a stubborn, younger sibling could muster. Her sister had insisted that she could not stay, but promised that she’d always come back if her dear Annabelle called her. Madame Willow claimed that Agnes always had, although it had been years before she had shared that fact with anyone else. Then, while we were all digesting that information, Madame Willow asked us to hold hands and we had, like obedient school children, complied. She was very convincing. 

“I reminded myself that this was a performance by a skilled actress, who clearly could have walked the boards with success. I concluded that some short-sighted theatre manager had overlooked her talents in favour of more comely aspirants, causing her to eschew the stage and turn her talents on smaller audiences in her back parlour."

I caught Holmes smiling at that. I forged ahead.

“I looked at the faces of varying ages and sex gathered around that table and saw the frightening gleam of hope on each one. My temper flared. It was vile to exploit that vulnerability. Without even attempting to school my expression, I turned to this Madame Willow but drew back at what I saw.”

How vividly I remembered the disorienting feel of it!

I glanced again at Holmes. He was learning forward. I closed my eyes.

“She was looking straight at me and her eyes were so sad,” I continued as I pictured them again, her light grey eyes so like Holmes’s. “‘Who would like to pose their questions first?’ she asked and I felt my eyes widening with the fear that she would somehow lure me into taking the lead.”

I opened my eyes. “You know I am not a coward, Holmes.”

“I know it well, my dear friend,” Holmes replied and his sharp grey eyes softened as he contemplated me.

“I was as fearful as I have ever been,” I declared. “As much as when I ran back up that rocky path leading to the Fall.”

Holmes nodded solemnly.

“Mr Morrow saved me by volunteering. He and his wife wanted to know if their son’s body had ever washed ashore and if it had, where. 

Madame Willow asked them to tell her more of their son. 

They explained that Arthur had been their only child, a tall, fair-haired boy who had always wanted to go to sea and how, at the age of sixteen, he and his cat had done exactly that by joining the Merchant Navy. After that, they only saw him every year or two, but when he could come home, he always brought them a memento of his travels. Upon his penultimate visit, he had brought two black-and-white kittens which he’d said were surely sired by his cat, Merlin, on the first mate’s tabby. Between visits, the occasional letter would reach them from some far-flung port-of-call. 

Mrs Morrow had then produced a packet of letters tied up with a dark blue ribbon. The most recent postmark had been two months before Arthhur’s ship had been spotted foundering off Lizard Point in Cornwall. 

“Madame Willow let go of Mr Morrow’s hand and rested her own on the envelopes. She sighed and nodded to Mr Morrow to proceed. 

“He explained that several bodies had been found among the jagged rocks of the coast, but none of them had been Arthur’s. Two crew members had made it to shore alive – the cook and the ship’s boy. They were both from The Lizard and Mr Morrow thought that might have helped them save themselves. Neither of them knew anything of Arthur Morrow’s fate, however. Three witnesses from the lighthouse said they had seen the ship’s main mast break off before the smaller sails caught the westward wind. The ship had last been seen as darkness fell, bucking and spinning towards the horizon. The shipowner had no success finding any trace of his vessel, the rest of its crew or its cargo and Lloyd’s had paid on the insurance.”

I took a deep breath.

“Mr Morrow delivered all this information stoically, but the strain of doing so was etched on his face. By his side, his wife cried without making a sound. The shipwreck had occurred a year prior to our gathering and they despaired of ever being able to lay their son’s body to rest in their parish churchyard. The shipowner had lost all interest in searching for the ship once the insurance had been paid and the Morrows knew not where else to turn.

“Madame Willow asked for silence while she sought out Agnes’s advice. I didn’t know where to rest my gaze. The Morrows looked so expectant, it was painful. Madame Willow sat with her eyes closed, her brow mildly furrowed. The other women at the table all had glistening eyes. Once again, I felt compelled to leave and take Mary and her friend with me, willing or no, but I held fire. It wasn’t my decision to make. At least not until something more unambiguously outrageous occurred.

“After only a few minutes, Madame Willow sat up straight and looked around at us all, blinking her eyes as though arising from a doze.

“You look like that when you’ve been rummaging in your mind attic,” I said. 

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “And what were the fruits of her rummaging?”

“Hugh Town,” I said. “She told them that if they were willing to make the journey, they would find what they sought in Hugh Town, in St Mary’s Church there and they should bring the letters with them. At this Mrs Morrow sobbed and I thought her husband would join her.

“'Your son asks you not to worry about him. His end came sooner than he had hoped, but it was swift, and now he captains his own ship on gentle seas before a fair wind.' Also, he found the first mate, his tabby and Merlin waiting on board for him and hopes their kittens are catching every rodent within a mile of the cottage at Rose End. She smiled at the Morrows. 'He sends his love and says he looks forward to the day you board his ship, but hopes it isn’t for a long while yet.'”

“I wanted to bellow, Holmes. What a shipload of poppycock. You’ve accused me of romanticising what you do, but I could never come close to that level of tinfoil-gilt, fairy-tale nonsense.”

“But you held your tongue,” Holmes surmised.

“I did,” I grumbled and shifted in my chair. “They looked so happy, Holmes. Ten years at least had dropped from their age.”

“But it would only last until they arrived in Hugh Town, unless they were clever enough to preserve their hopeful illusions by making some excuse of seasickness or expense and never putting any of it to the test,” Holmes remarked and began scraping out his pipe into his empty tea cup.

“They did put it to the test, though.”

“Oh?”

“I went to visit them about a month later. There had been an exchange of visitor’s cards at the end of our gathering in Madame Willow’s parlour, so one afternoon, when a house call brought me to their neighbourhood, I went to see what time had wrought.”

I paused because I wasn’t sure how I was going to describe the encounter.

“Well, man, don’t leave me hanging here. You’ve aroused my curiosity.”

I considered his expression. I’d aroused his sympathy it seemed to me. I wasn’t certain what emotion the next chapter would evoke.

Holmes waved an impatient hand at me.

“And I found two people as serene as bereaved parents could be.”

Holmes frowned.

“They had wasted no time and set out for Hugh Town within days of our gathering, their son’s letters safely tucked into Mr Morrow’s coat pocket for substantiation of who they were. Ten days later, they had returned with their son’s remains in a new burial gown and a fine oak coffin they had had made in the town. Shortly thereafter, they had arranged a service for all their friends and relations to attend and interred their dear boy under the family monument in the parish churchyard.”

It was Holmes’s turn to gasp. “She had an accomplice in Hugh Town! This is much deeper than I had thought, Watson.”

“There’s more,” I cautioned.

“When I visited, they showed me the effects that had been found on their son’s body, which they were keeping in a velvet pouch inside a fair-sized cedarwood box: a stout leather belt with brass buckle complete with AQM engraved on the reverse, the tattered remnants of a seaman’s tunic – front and back panels and a bit of one sleeve, a pair of gold reading spectacles from a buttoned inside pocket of the tunic – one lens cracked, and a gold ring that had belonged to Mr Morrow’s father and been inscribed with his initials, QAM, and the date of its presentation to him on his twenty-first birthday in 1817. This ring had been passed on to Mr Morrow when he reached adulthood and then to Arthur on his first visit home after attaining his majority. It had been removed for safe-keeping, with the help of the local surgeon, when the body had been brought up from the shore to the church.”

“What did you make of it, Watson?”

I raised both my hands. “What could I make of it? The Morrows were thoroughly convinced they had their son’s body back and I couldn’t see how anyone could refute their conclusion. And why would anyone want to? It gave them some peace of mind to have the mortal remains of their child tucked into the parish graveyard along with his forebears.”

“And this physical proof lent credence to the more ethereal claims that had been made about their son,” Holmes deduced.

“Absolutely. Not only would their bodies be buried alongside him in the ground, but their spirits would board his ship for an eternal journey in the afterlife - no strings attached, no judgements, no waiting period. I think that might be verging on the heretical, and I doubt they shared it with their vicar before the funeral service, but the Morrows clearly liked this version of things and spoke of it fondly during my visit. Indeed, I got to meet Tristan and Gawain, the cats apparently destined for the same voyage. Fine, sturdy toms they were and extremely friendly. I came away with a good deal of black and white fur on my trousers.” 

Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “And these highly unusual circumstances convinced you of the medium’s authenticity?”

My forefinger was aloft again. “You think so little of me, Holmes?” 

Somewhere in the telling of the Morrows’ tale, I had lost the gloom that suffused my own portion of the saga. I had not thought of the Morrows since Holmes’s return, and recounting their story to him hadn’t clarified my understanding of it one jot. 

“Might they be accomplices, Watson?”

“It did cross my mind, but the Actors’ Guild would have lost two further luminaries if they are,” I replied. 

Holmes tapped a finger against his lips. “We’ll leave it for now and pick up another thread. What about the sisters?”

“Their reasons for consulting Madame Willow were less heart-wrenching and the outcome of the consultation less inexplicable. I will summarise what they shared that evening.”

“Do you think we should ring for another pot of tea before you begin?” Holmes enquired.

“Yes, I think we should, although I’ll try to be briefer,” I promised.

“Maybe toast or cakes to go with them?”

“By all means. I think we’ll both need the strength.” 

Holmes was already leaning out the sitting room door and giving instructions before I had time to stand and stretch – a few bones crackled and I heaved a great sigh. It was a relief to share all of this with Holmes. I started to grin at the pleasure of bringing such a fine puzzle to him, to hold his interest as I obviously was. My smile faded. What would he make of the final chapter? 

Holmes poured a glass of port for each of us, handed me one and settled into his chair, long legs stretched out before him. 

I took a sip of the wine, stepped over the legs and re-situated myself facing him. The port felt warm going down, a substitute for the heat we had lost as the sun travelled to its zenith. The light was dimmer in our room.

Holmes gestured at me. I took another sip and began.

“Stella and Isabelle Knight were separated in age from their two older siblings by over a decade. When they were still children their brother had left for university, then the City, and their sister had married and moved to Edinburgh. When their father had grown infirm, it had been Stella and Isabelle who had helped their mother look after him and when he died, they had remained to keep her company and in time, look after her. Their siblings visited now and then, and their brother looked after their financial affairs. It seemed no one gave any thought to their future beyond their mother’s lifetime, no plans were made to marry them and their household was comfortable enough that no one contemplated possible occupations for them outside their home. They had a small circle of old friends with whom they sometimes travelled, one at a time we were to understand; they cultivated ‘their little talents’ for music and art, which pleased their parents, and took advantage of the many acceptable diversions for young ladies in London. And thus, the decades passed.”

I paused when Mrs Hudson arrived with the tea tray and little Martha followed with sandwiches and cakes and fruit. All was arranged at our elbows.

“We are lucky men, Watson,” Holmes exclaimed as Mrs Hudson poured.

I don’t think the wonder of us both being back in residence had yet worn off for her even though we were certainly much more trouble than an empty suite that only needed dusting and polishing and the occasional airing.

“You are,” she agreed with a look of great satisfaction.

She is rather extraordinary, our Mrs Hudson. I thought of her moving about that very room on her hands and knees whilst bullets whizzed over her head. For far from the first time, I marvelled at the strengths that Holmes calls forth in his friends.

She left us alone with our refreshments, but before she turned to leave, I saw her hand twitch near Holmes’s head and I think she only just refrained from ruffling his hair.

I drained my wine glass and resumed my narration.

“All was placid in the Knight household until about six months prior to our gathering when their brother had died shortly after returning from a business trip to Manchester. The culprit appeared to have been a burst appendix that had not been diagnosed in time.”

“You are critical of his doctor, I perceive,” Holmes said.

Caught out, I conceded that Mr Knight might not have consulted a physician at the early signs of his ailment. “Some people are very obstinate about such things.” I eyed Holmes.

He had moved on from port to tea and regarded me over the rim of his steaming cup. “Mr Knight surely was not so fortunate as to have one in residence.”

“Not a competent one at any rate.” I tried not to show how very pleased I was to have my usefulness in that regard acknowledged so openly.

I cleared my throat.

“The death of her son struck a blow to Mrs Knight’s health from which she never recovered and a month before our gathering she, too, had died.”

“She held a life estate,” Holmes stated, setting aside his tea cup and taking up a tiny sandwich.

“Exactly.”

“Remainder to the son in the first instance, but if he pre-deceased his mother, then to…”

“Eldest nephew,” I supplied.

“The son had no children.”

“Right again. So, the nephews in Scotland came into play, at least the oldest one did. He hardly knew his maternal aunts. It had been years since he had accompanied his mother on her annual journey south. He was recently engaged and a property in London appealed to his fiancée. A solicitor paid a call on the Misses Knight and conveyed the news that they must quit the premises within ninety days to make way for the arrival of the new owner of their life-long home.”

“Does the elder sister not intercede with her son on her younger siblings’ behalf?” 

“The Misses Knight make no reference to her involvement. I am without data on that side of things.”

“Hmm. How does a medium fit into this scenario? Do they want one, or both, of their parents to haunt the ungentlemanly nephew or the silent older sister?” 

I couldn’t repress a chuckle. “It was simpler than that. They wanted to ask their mother where certain keys were.”

Holmes sat up.

“Their mother had inherited ‘significant’ jewellery from her grandmother when they were children. Their older sister had been given her share as a wedding present and they had been told that the rest would be theirs on their wedding days, but those days had never come and the whole matter was forgotten until their mother was on her deathbed and trying to tell them where the keys to the safe deposit boxes in their names were located, but didn’t have the strength to get all the details out before she fell unconscious and then died.”

“Very concrete,” Holmes mused. “And they got their answer?”

“They did, after sliding an embroidered shawl across the table – a favourite garment of their mother we were told because the Misses Knight had decorated it as a birthday present for her when they were girls. 

“After another period of silent concentration, Madame Willow announced that Agnes had passed her the answer along with a message of maternal concern and fond appreciation for all Stella and Isabelle’s tender care over the years. The directions to the location of the two keys and some documents relating to their ownership of the boxes were given in precise terms. The wording sounded more like a business letter than a message from the beyond, but instead of the message ending with ‘yours faithfully’ it ended with a declaration of parental love. The contrast was almost comical, but the relief on the sisters’ faces forestalled any levity.”

“You visited them, too?”

“After calling on the Morrows, I felt I had to explore further. I only just caught them before they departed for the Continent. There were trunks and cases stacked in the foyer. They were both going to stay for a few weeks with a friend who kept an apartment in Paris, then all were going on to Rome where another friend would rendezvous with them. Further plans sounded like a long-delayed grand tour of sorts.”

“Financial worries a thing of the past?” 

“It appeared so. I didn’t wish to baldly enquire, but as it turned out I didn’t need to ask. Gleefully, they told me, sometimes in tandem and sometimes in unison, that all had been as Madame Willow relayed. They had retained a few small pieces of jewellery each for sentimental reasons and because they were pretty, but the major jewels had had to be sold. They hired a photographer to come to their house and photograph them wearing most of it, as keepsakes. They showed me the photographs. I think most people would have assumed they were wearing costume jewellery - the styles of the jewels were so old-fashioned and the primary gems so large. In the end, their mother had been thinking of their future.”

Holmes popped out of his chair and rifled through his stack of newspapers. “The auction!” he exclaimed. “There was reference to it last week in an article about a recent sale at Sotheby’s that was re-selling a certain necklace. In the author’s opinion, except for that one item, what was on offer last week didn’t hold a candle to the auction three years ago when that necklace was first sold along with a whole collection of jewels that had never before been offered for sale to the public. Representatives of museums were outbidding one another. Agents of private collectors were doing their best to keep up. The author is extravagant in his descriptions. He doesn’t believe he’ll see anything like it again in his lifetime.” Holmes held up a newspaper. “Here it is.” He thrust it at me.

There was a drawing of the necklace that had been singled out for praise. “That’s one of them,” I exclaimed. “I recognise it from their photographs.” I read some of the text. “He does favour hyperbole.” I sighed. “The sisters parted with the jewels so light-heartedly.”

“Baubles,” Holmes said, “that they were able to trade for freedom. I imagine their only other option would have been to go live with their sister, where there is no evidence that they were particularly welcome. Or, I suppose, they could have tried their hands at being governesses.”

I waved the newspaper a bit. “If we are to believe this fellow, they were much more than baubles. They were works of art, historical artefacts.”

“Still, they could neither eat them nor live in them,” Holmes said, returning to his seat. “But all this is beside the point. How did your Madame Willow know where those keys were?”

I shrugged. “I am merely relaying the information I have. You are the great detective who unravels mysteries.”

Holmes inclined his head at my words. “Very well. Present the rest of it.”

“Next was Kate Whitney. She placed a small pistol on the table and gave it a little push. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mary wince as the gun skittered past her. Madame Willow released Mary’s hand and stopped the gun from falling off the table. She didn’t pick it up or rest her hand on it as she had with the letters and the shawl, however.

“’What would you like to ask?’ she’d asked Kate very quietly.

“’I would like to know whether Isa is at peace now. Whether the cravings have finally gone away,’ Kate had replied.

“Madame Willow had not touched the gun again, but she closed her eyes as before, her frown deeper this time. She bit her lip at one point and her eyes squeezed more tightly shut. She let out a long sigh when she opened them.

“’I asked Agnes to bring Isa to me so I could communicate with him directly,’ she said. ‘This is not easy for me and I cannot do it often.’

“Kate had nodded and said that she understood.

“Madame Willow let out another, even longer exhalation. ‘Isa said that he floats now. He has no worries or fears to weigh him down. He is neither happy nor sad. He craves nothing. He said he will understand if you do not wish to seek him out when your time comes. He is at peace. He craves nothing. He misses no one.’

“I looked to Mary. There were tears on her cheeks as she regarded her friend. Kate was dry-eyed and her shoulders were less hunched than they had been when we arrived. Mary pushed the pistol gently back towards Kate, who shook her head. I took the gun off the table, checked the safety, and put it in my pocket.

“When I looked back up from the task, I found Madame Willow’s eyes on me.

“’What are your questions?’ she asked me and I was confused. Had she thought that I had questions for Isa, too?

“Then Mary took something out of her bag and set it in front of Madame Willow. I recognised one of the framed photographs from my desk. I kept two there, in identical silver frames - the ones you gave us as a wedding present. I suppose you thought they would be for a portrait of Mary and a portrait of me, but I put your photograph in the second one instead.”

“I didn’t see any photographs on your desk,” Holmes said.

“No, I put them away after Mary died. I couldn’t bear having the both of you staring at me.” I pressed my hand over the inner pocket of my jacket again. It has become a tic, that gesture.

“Where did you get a photograph of me?”

I laughed at that. “From that photographer you suspected of murder. You sat for a whole series in order to have plenty of time to converse with him and observe his reactions. You told him you were an actor and had me bring along changes of costume, stage make-up, and props - a skull and a riding crop. Surely you remember?”

“I remember that I never collected those photographs. Once I had eliminated the photographer as a suspect, I had no use for him or them. Whatever would I do with a raft of photographs?” Holmes asked.

“I went ‘round and collected them,” I explained. “You’d paid for them, why leave them behind? Who knows what use he might have made of them. Even if he wasn’t a murderer, he mightn’t have been averse to making a pound or two by selling them.”

“Is that all I’d be worth? What an insult! It was wise of you to forestall such a thing.” He smiled at me.

“That was one of our early cases. You were still so young. And he’d captured that, with his chemicals. He’d captured the image of your youth on paper. They are beautiful photographs.”

“Which meant something to you,” he said.

“Yes.” I shut my eyes then, so he wouldn’t see. Which is ridiculous because it is nigh impossible to hide something from Sherlock Holmes, unless perhaps one has hidden it from oneself as well.

I pressed hard against my coat and the silver case in my pocket dug into my flesh. There had been times when I’d taken it out and held it, still warm from where I carried it, but I wouldn’t open it because I couldn’t bear to see how beautiful he had been in those photographs, looking this way and that, assuming poses to keep the photographer distracted while he was being interrogated, all unaware. All that beauty, of body and mind, all gone.

I blew out a puff of air and opened my eyes. “So, where were we?”

“At the séance,” Holmes supplied.

“Yes, of course. So, there we were and Mary was setting your photograph on that table. I couldn’t see it because the frame was face down, but I knew which one it was – a profile where you’re looking a little upwards, a slight truculence in your expression.”

I glanced at Holmes. He was studying me intently.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you, because you never looked at those photographs?”

“You never told me you’d brought them home,” he pointed out.

“True enough.”

“The séance,” Holmes urged.

“Yes. So, Madame Willow picked up the frame, considered the photograph a moment, then looked at me.

“’What is your question?’ she repeated.

“I had no intention of asking anything, you understand. I had listened to all her palaver with extreme scepticism and hadn’t yet found out the things I was later to learn, although the message purportedly from Isa had been unsettling in its insightfulness into what I had observed of his character. Still, that wouldn’t have been enough to persuade me to actively participate in her charade, and yet, I did ask a question. The words came flying out of my mouth completely without my consent, and I asked why you had sent me away from the Fall that day. It had hurt me terribly to think that you had chosen to face death with an enemy rather than a friend, rather than with me.” I paused for breath.

Holmes opened his mouth and I raised my hand to stop him. 

“I may as well finish now,” I said.

“So, I had asked the question about which I tried not to think when I wrote up the story of your death or read through my old notebooks to check a fact or…well…I sat there, at that table, and waited to hear what this clever lady would come up with to say to that. I steeled myself for it because whatever it was, it was going to hurt to hear your name in her mouth, in that room of the bereaved and the abandoned seeking to converse with the dead.

“She didn’t say anything for so long that my wild thoughts circled back to her and the whole farce that was being enacted, and then she spoke. ‘Agnes has no answer for you. She says, ‘He's not here.’

“That’s what Madame Willow said. ‘He's not here.’”

I glanced at Holmes. His back was very straight and his eyes unusually wide as he stared at me.

“According to her and her ‘spirit guide’, you weren’t among the dead. How could she know that? I thought then I had stumped her. Even later when I spoke with the Morrows and the Knights, I thought that however she had managed what she had managed with them, she hadn’t been able to come up with anything plausible to say to me about you. Then, two years later you pop into existence in my study. And that’s probably why I didn’t have a seizure or go berserk instead of merely fainting when you did it, because I’d had that hint from her, that suggestion that just maybe, you really weren’t in the land of the dead.

“And that, Holmes, is the sum total of my evidence for why I think that Madame Willow is not a fraud. I don’t know how she could do what she did, or what her motivations could be because her fees were not exorbitant, but a fake she is not. The only person I’ve ever seen come close to the sort of thing she did that evening is you, and some people think that you’re all smoke and mirrors, playing some kind of trick on them, and I know they’re wrong. I have lots of evidence for that belief, but I only have the amount I’ve just set forth for Madame Willow, the woman who told me that you weren’t in the Land of the Dead.

~~~~ 

I sat breathless for quite a while after I finished my narrative. Mary hadn’t lived long enough to know how right Madame Willow had been and I hadn’t sought to consult her after Mary’s death. There had been no sliver of doubt; Mary had died in my arms and we had had time to say all we’d wanted to say to one another as she faded away. Maybe we’d been guided by the questions our companions had asked of the dead that evening in Madame Willow's parlour. Since then, Kate had moved back to her parents’ home in Brighton. I suppose the others might have seen mention in the London papers of the miraculous return of Sherlock Holmes to the land of the living, but I had never said his name aloud in that room and unless they happened to be readers of _The Strand_ , they wouldn’t be aware of my association with the famous detective and thus have no way of knowing to whom my desperate question was addressed. Despite the number of strangers present, my emotional display had turned out to be strangely discreet.

As I sat staring out our windows into the gloom, Holmes had migrated from his chair. It was the weight of his head on my knee that roused me from my reverie. I looked down. He must have been running his hands through his hair as it was rather wild. I brushed a fallen lock away from his brow. 

“I can’t think how she managed with the others, some mysteries elude even me,” he said, “but with regard to my not being dead the only rational explanation that presents itself is that she was either a confederate of Moriarty and Moran's or knew someone who was. I suspect that she was thoroughly aware of our connection.”

I continued to stroke his hair. “I don’t only love you for your successes, you know.”

I felt the expansion of his chest against my leg as he sighed mightily. “However she managed it, with whatever motivations, I am grateful that her actions spared you a tiny fraction of the grief I caused you. I will never be able to apologise enough.”

“I don't need more apologies, one promise will do.”

He lifted his head at that. 

My hand dropped to his shoulder. I seized on it, gripping hard through the cloth. “Promise me that whatever dangers the future brings, we’ll face them together.”

His piercing gaze stayed on me. “Even the passage of Time, the dulling of wit, the allure of the trim ankle and the coy passing glance?” 

“Even those,” I agreed solemnly, then tilted my head to the side and looked at where his kneeling position had caused the legs of his trousers to ride up and expose his slender ankles. “Only yours, Sherlock,” I added.

His eyelids lowered at that and the corner of his lips curled up.

“And when I whisper your name in the dark, will the reply always be, ‘I am here’?”

“Yes,” he replied, leaning forward and confirming his answer with a kiss.

~o~~0O0~~o~ 

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to see one of the photographs John had in his silver case, one of the ones for which props and stage make-up were employed, it can be viewed [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeremy_Brett#/media/File:Jeremy_Brett_as_Hamlet.jpg).


End file.
